I stroll along the narrow streets, back the way I came, my heart both light and heavy. I wasn’t lying when I told Garda Duffy that I couldn’t remember what the guy who knocked me down looked like. And the bits that I’ve remembered since didn’t prepare me for the guy I just sat and gaped at like a high school freshman for the past hour.
The second we locked eyes, I knew it was him. Those eyes, I don’t think I’ll ever forget them. Except they were deeper, greener than I remembered, like the lush highlands that decorate the Irish tourism magazines. Couple them with a wide, playful smile and an angular jaw hidden behind a few days’ worth of golden scruff, and his face is a perfect blend of handsome features. And I had forgotten his voice—masculine yet melodious, his Irish accent obvious but not overbearing.
River . . . It’s an odd name, and yet it seems to suit him.
I couldn’t tell what he made of me in those first few moments, as a muscular arm held a glass up to the flowing tap, as his gaze landed on me and panic exploded within it. The panic I recognized instantly, and I immediately started second-guessing my brilliant plan to track him down, suddenly understanding that maybe he wants nothing to do with me or the bombing. Something I refused to admit earlier, when the GPS on my phone led me to this pub, my thoughts entirely focused on my need to see him again.
To be honest, I thought finding him was a desperate long shot to begin with. I was so convinced that I was grasping at straws that I killed four hours with touristy things before I could no longer ignore the magnetic pull to the address sitting open in my Google Maps app.
River seemed to get over the shock quickly enough, though, around the time that I lost my cool and started to cry. For the first time since the bombing, it was as if I could finally let my guard down. In that moment I was ready to clamber over the bar and wrap my arms around his neck. It threw me off when he wiped away my tears, and it thrilled me more than a little when he kissed my hand before letting go. I didn’t think guys even did that anymore.
For a while after, I even thought he might be flirting with me—his dimples deep, his chuckles genuine, his gaze warm. It was a possibility that had me stumbling over my words. On top of the swell of emotions I was grappling with, the guy actually made me nervous!
But then he wished me well on my trip and that was that. Little prickles of disappointment and jealousy stung me as I watched him charm a dozen other customers from the safety of my stool, my face half-hidden behind my pint—which tasted nothing like the bitter tar that they serve at Roadside in Sisters, Oregon. I sat and I wondered how old he is, what his house is like, what his family is like, what he does when he’s not working. Where did he go to college? Did he even go to college? What does he want to do with the rest of his life?
Does he have a girlfriend?
All the things you think about when you’re attracted to someone.
And I’m definitely attracted to River.
Or am I? Is this warm swell in my chest merely because of what he did for me? Is that clouding my other senses?
I guess what I feel or don’t feel doesn’t really matter, though. I snagged his gaze just once more before I left, almost as if by accident. It was like he’d already forgotten about me. And that’s when I reminded myself that he’s an Irish bartender and flirting with customers is in his blood. A handsome, scruffy-faced bartender, serving beer in a dirty old Dublin pub to a bunch of middle-aged men who I’d bet money are here every single day after work, like any good alcoholic barfly.
He’s a stranger, really.
And he probably has a girlfriend.
And I live over four thousand miles away.
Focusing on the bigger picture helps ground whatever deep-seated fantasies my subconscious has already started spinning.
After a little while, the place started getting crowded and hot and loud. I kept getting knocked and bumped by elbows and trays, each jolt reminding me how out-of-place I felt in that world. His world. Then a sweaty little man with a distorted French accent—sounding like he’s been living in Ireland a while—dropped his arm around my shoulder to make small talk and I decided there was no point in me staying. The moment I stood, the crowd swallowed my spot up and pushed me out.
So I just left.
I didn’t even think to leave a tip.
Now I meander through narrow old streets lined with shops and pubs, thrumming with people and Irish music, reminding myself that at least I got the chance to thank him. Something that, until this morning, I assumed I’d never be able to do.
But if I’m being honest with myself, I’m also searching for excuses to go back. Replaying the conversation over and over, chastising myself for the witty answers I didn’t give, wishing I had asked a dozen other questions that have nothing to do with the day of the attack and everything to do with getting to know him.
Not that talking about the attack wasn’t important—quite the opposite, in fact. Those few hushed moments, when River leaned in close, his undivided attention on me, allowing me the chance to speak out loud about it for the first time, were therapeutic. I feel a little bit lighter now.
A howl of laughter to my right pulls my attention to a group of friends in their early twenties. I can’t tell if they’re tourists or locals but they’re definitely drunk, one of the guys nearly knocking over a floral planter as they spill out of a pub. Then again, this is the Temple Bar area and I’ve been told that no local with any common sense would come here, so . . . they must be travelers.
I sigh, wishing, as I have occasionally, that I weren’t making this trip alone. None of my friends have the good fortune that I do, though, of being able to just leave their jobs for four months and have it waiting for them when they get back. I’d like to think that a lot of that leeway has come on account of my stellar performance at St. Charles Medical Center, but I’m sure having my mother, the highly respected Dr. Meredith Alwood, working there as well helps.
I move on, heading down the now familiar Grafton Street again, where a new round of performers demonstrate their talents—a guy throwing flaming knives, a bikini-clad woman juggling glassware, an older gentleman thumping on a bodhran. The lady manning the flower stand from this morning catches my eyes and I decide that I definitely need those sunflowers.
I fish through my purse as she wraps a bunch, my fingers deftly identifying and dismissing the bristles of my brush, a small umbrella, my tube of lipstick . . .
I frown, opening it up wide, peering inside.
My stomach drops as the realization hits me.
“Dublin sucks.”
“So, you lost some money. You didn’t get blown up by a bomb or anything.” Jesse’s cool, bored tone fills my ear and my heart with homesickness. I miss my brother right now. Even when he’s making bad jokes.
“Three hundred euro. And my license. And my bank card.” That’s two strikes. I don’t want to find out what the third may be. Ireland is officially a bust. I should just pack up and leave.
“But not your passport or your credit cards or any plane tickets or—”
“Since when did you become a ray of optimism?” He’s right, though. Thank God I wrapped all my valuables, including my passport, in a plastic bag and stuck it into the fireplace. Because Sheriff Gabe Welles always knows best.
Metal clangs in the background, telling me that Jesse’s in the garage, tinkering with one of his engines as usual. It’s after two p.m. in Oregon, eight hours behind Dublin time, and five hours since I realized my wallet had been stolen. It took me that long to swallow my pride and call, hoping my dad would somehow be able to help me, even from thousands of miles away. “Where’s the sheriff?”
“Just ran into town a little while ago.” Jesse sighs. “He fucked up his brake job this morning, so he had to go for new parts.”
I chuckle, despite everything. It’s nice to see the two of them getting along well, after so many years when they didn’t.
“Did you call the bank already?”
“Some 1-800 number, yeah. The card is canceled and I can use my credit card to pull money through my account. It’s just . . .” I bite my lip.
“I know. You feel violated. But you’re safe, and you don’t have to go to the embassy and jump through hoops for a new passport.”
“What about my license? Now I can’t drive anywhere!”
“Well, you can. Just don’t get caught.”
I roll my eyes. Totally a Jesse thing to say. “No. Definitely not risking that in a foreign country.” I don’t need any more run-ins with gardai. Plus, I’m not even using my own car. I would never be that irresponsible with Simon’s generosity.
“So then . . . whatever. You take trains, the bus, cabs. Don’t let some dickwad ruin this trip for you.”
I heave a shaky sigh, collecting the ball of used tissues from the kitchen counter, my cheeks finally dry of tears. “How do you think someone got it?”
“What do you mean, how? They stuck their hand into your purse and they took it out. They probably bumped into you so you wouldn’t feel the lift.”
“Is that how you would have done it?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.
“If I stole wallets, sure.” Irritation slides into his deep voice.
I sigh, not wanting to bicker. “I know you wouldn’t do that, Jesse.” Despite everything he has done—and the list is long—I know my brother’s heart and he’s not a lowlife.
There’s a long pause and then Jesse finally asks, “So? Is this trip everything you hoped it would be?”
Aside from a few brief hi’s and ’byes as he wanders past the camera during my Skype calls with Alex, I haven’t really talked with my brother since I left. And the last time we spoke in person, a week before I hopped a plane to Vancouver, it ended in an epic fight. Jesse’s friend Luke Boone had come by with another car for Jesse to fix up and flip. I told Jesse that I thought he was an idiot for still associating with that guy and he needed to cut him off. Luke may look like the perfect package—money, good looks, impeccable grooming—but by the bits of information I’ve been able to piece together, he’s also one of the reasons Jesse got into that spectacular mess back in Portland. Of course, that’s all a lot of speculation because no one will tell me shit.
Despite the wedge that’s grown between me and my twin brother, I do care about him, which is why I said what I did. He didn’t appreciate it, though, deciding it was the right time to lay my own faults and bad choices on the table. Apparently, I spend too much time worrying about what everyone else thinks, and maybe I should look at my own group of friends because they’re all a bunch of stuck-up bitches and they’ve made me a judgmental snob. But that wasn’t enough. He had to lay into this trip, too. I’m going to waste all this money to figure out there’s no big miracle waiting for me out there, that I actually like my comfortable little town and my comfortable little life, and that I won’t be happy being a tadpole in an ocean.
I stormed off then, with tears burning in my eyes. Not because he was so wrong, but because I was afraid he might be right.
“Yeah. It’s been great.” Maybe one day I’ll tell Jesse the truth about my morning in St. Stephen’s Green. Of anyone in my family, he’d be the only one who didn’t care that I lied.
“Good.” There’s a long pause and, while I know I won’t get an apology out of him over some of the things he said, I can feel it lingering there. “When’d you have your wallet last?”
I think back to my day. After the tea shop and the discovery of that T-shirt, I wandered around Dublin city center, deciding what I’d say if I saw the guy again. When I finally accepted that I had to try and find him, I hopped in a cab. So I know I had my wallet when I arrived at Delaney’s because I paid for the ride, but I don’t know if I left with it, seeing as I didn’t pay for my beer.
“I was at a pub,” I say, half-heartedly.
“Crowded?”
“Yeah.” I lost count how many times I was bumped into.
“That’s probably where someone lifted it. I’m sure you stuck out like a tourist who may have money.”
I definitely stuck out . . .
“Call them. Forget about your cash. It’s long gone. But the person probably ditched everything else. It’s worth a shot.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Jesse.” I hang up. A bubble of nerves erupts in my stomach as I search for the number. It’s ten at night and probably still busy. I don’t expect anyone to answer.
That’s why I’m surprised—and caught tongue-tied for a moment—when a man’s voice fills the receiver with, “Delaney’s.”
Is it River? It sounds like him. “Hi . . . I was there a few hours ago and I lost my wallet.”
“Lost it?” the guy repeats with his Irish brogue. Raucous music and clanking glassware compete in the background.
“Stolen, probably. I know it’s not likely, but is there any chance someone turned it in to the bar?”
“They haven’t. But I can keep an ear out. Where can we ring ya if it turns up?”
I give him my cell phone number. Thank God for my international plan and Simon’s WiFi; otherwise this trip would be two months instead of four. “My name’s Amber.” I hesitate. “River knows me.” Sort of.
“The pretty American bird who made my brother spill a pint, is that you?”
My face heats up, and I’m so glad that I’m alone in my kitchen and not in front of this guy. He must be the other bartender. I thought they looked related.
He chuckles, not waiting for my answer. “I’ll let him know you rang.”
I hang up the phone and exhale heavily.
Maybe they’ll find it.
Maybe I’ll have an excuse to see River again.
Nervous excitement grows inside me.
